


Brendon story #2

by fictionalaspect



Series: Unfinished, Abandoned, Snippets, Bits and Pieces [9]
Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon the loneliest teenage werewolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brendon story #2

**Author's Note:**

> I stop writing this because I felt like I had already written this story, and it was just More Adventurous with added werewolves.

Brendon was restless.

It was two-thirty six am, two days before the full moon. Brendon turned over twice, then shoved his pillow away and kicked the covers down to the foot of his bed. His legs jittered faintly with excess tension. Brendon wanted to climb out his window and run around outside, to feel the burn and stretch in his thighs as he worked the muscles. He wasn't going to, because he could imagine exactly how much the neighborhood patrol would think of a high-school kid going for a run in the middle of night, but he wanted to.

Brendon stretched his hands above his head until his back popped with a satisfying crack. He stared up at the ceiling and considered his options. He could sneak down in the kitchen and make some food; his parents would understand. He could turn the volume down low on the tv, sit really close to the screen and try to find a shitty cable movie. He could read for History class tomorrow, instead of saving it until his free period before lunch.

He could jerk off.

Again.

Brendon rolled his shoulders against the sheets, and tried to come up with a reason to do something productive that didn't involve masturbation. He knew, rationally, that it wasn't really his fault. He was seventeen years old, and male, and neither of those factors was doing him any favors.

Also, he was a werewolf.

That too.

Brendon kicked off his boxers, and settled back against the pillows, palming himself absent-mindedly. It wasn't even like he was really that turned on; he was just restless, itchy beneath the skin with unspent energy. It kind of sucked, and it was only going to get worse before it got better. It had been getting worse and worse this past year, and no one in Brendon's family had had any advice except to just wait it out. Which was bullshit, because it was a hereditary family condition. Either everyone was holding out on him, or they just didn't want to talk about it.

Brendon could understand that—he didn't particularly want to talk to his great-aunt about his masturbatory habits either—but it would have been nice if there had been like, a manual or something. "So you got stuck being the once-in-a-generation Urie werewolf: tips for surviving puberty." So far the only useful information he'd gotten out of Great Aunt Tilly was that at some point soon, Brendon would find his human pack, his _glèidh cridhe_ Brendon still wasn't sure what that meant, since Great Aunt Tilly mumbled a lot and sometimes talked to him about penguins.

Brendon blinked, and then took his hand off his dick. Thinking about Great Aunt Tilly was totally killing his semi-boner. He sighed and stood up. He had three hours until he had to be up for school; Brendon figured he could kill at least half of that time reading for History Class.

-

{this also tells too much, but i kind of like it as a backstory piece. maybe pull some of the scene above out, and add it in here?}

When Brendon was twelve years old, he turned into a wolf on the night of Kara's 27th birthday party. Brendon didn't really remember much about it; he remembered feeling strange all day, and then suddenly he was underneath the table and everyone's knees smelled _fascinating_. He had essentially been a puppy—a tiny, angry puppy—so his Dad had picked him up by the scruff of his neck and told him sternly to behave and then fed him chicken wings until he calmed down. Brendon had learned about this later, when he'd woken up the next morning tied to the kitchen table and feeling like he'd been hit by a truck. And also with the strange taste of chicken in his mouth, even though he couldn't recall eating any.

Brendon had thought it was cool for about a week, despite his parent's sad expressions and whispered conversations, until he'd realized it didn't actually change anything. He still had terrible vision as a human. He wasn't super strong, or super smart, although his sense of smell definitely become stronger.

Mostly, Brendon just went from being an awkward, hyperactive loser to being an awkward hyperactive loser who needed to be house-trained and liked to chase squirrels.

He was still waiting for the part were being a werewolf made him _cool._

-

Brendon blinked at the chalkboard, shaking himself awake and yawing. He wasn't trying to be rude. He'd managed an hour of sleep between four am and five, drooling onto his history book on the couch. The worst part about the week before the full moon was the constant tiredness, the feeling of being out-of-whack with the rest of the world. His body wanted to sleep all day, and stay up all night; his high-school career begged to differ.

Brendon nudged Brent with the tip of elbow, purposefully stilling his leg. Brent didn't talk much, but he was nice enough to Brendon and didn't bat an eye when Brendon did something really bizarre, like get distracted by strange smells or growl at people. Brendon tried really, really hard to be normal, but sometimes things just sort of slipped out. Either Brent didn't notice—which was entirely possible—or he'd just chalked it up to Brendon being strange, but harmless.

"Hey," Brendon said softly, trying to keep his voice quiet so as not to alert Mr. Ketchings, his cranky and balding Geometry teacher. "What page are we on? I think I passed out for a little bit."

"Sixty-seven," Brent whispered back, just as quietly. "What, you partying all weekend?"

"You know it," Brendon said, flipping the pages quickly. "That's me. I'm a party kid."

"Yeah," Brent nodded, entirely missing Brendon's sarcasm. "Hey, dude. Listen. I was going to ask you—you looking for, like. An extracurricular activity?"

"What?" Brendon said, forgetting to be quiet for a second. "Is this about the chess club? I told you, I suck at chess."

"Dude, not so loud," Brent said, looking around guiltily. "I told you, I'm only in because my parent's made me. I don't want everyone to _know_."

"Yeah, that might ruin your sex life," Brendon said, completely straight faced. He knew he was being kind of a dick, but he couldn't help it. The full moon always made him snippy.

"I know, right?" Brent said. "Kasey will never let me get to third base if she knows. Anyway, no, dude, I meant—I told you about the band I'm in, right?"

"Oh," Brendon said, blinking a little. "Yeah."

"Yeah, so, we need another guitarist," Brent said. "Trevor quit last week. You interested?"

"Wait, really?" Brendon said, forgetting to be a jerk for a moment in favor of the sudden spike of nervous excitement in his stomach. "Like. For real, really?"

"Duh," Brent said. "I mean. You'll have to try out, but. I've heard you messing around in Band, you're good enough."

"You've heard me play the piano," Brendon said, frowning a little bit in confusion. "What does that have to do with my guitar skills?"

"Whatever, you can handle it," Brent said, waving his hand. "So, Thursday?"

"Uh," Brendon said, calculating in his head. Thursday was the night of the full moon. Brendon knew he'd be weirder than normal that day, but he also didn't want to blow his chance. He'd heard Brent talk about the guys in his band before, and from what he'd said, they seemed nice enough, if way too cool for Brendon. But maybe—maybe Brendon could convince them to take him, after they heard him play.

Brendon rubbed at his forehead, buying time. On the one hand, he was a loser with approximately three friends, and this was a chance to actually show off something he was good at. On the other, it was totally possible that if things didn't go well, he'd freak out and growl at someone, and then he'd _really_ be friendless.

"I—I need to think about it," Brendon said lamely. "I have a family thing on Thursday, maybe—"

"Oh," Brent said, drawing back a little. "Oh, okay. It's cool man. I get it. I was thinking—that guy Rob, in our gym class, he plays guitar, right?"

"Shit," Brendon muttered, and bit his lip a little. Now Brent thought he just wasn't interested, which couldn't have been farther from the truth.

"Rob doesn't play guitar," Brendon said, coming to a sudden decision. "He plays bass. And you know what, fuck it. I'll come on Thursday. I have to be home by like six, though, or my mom will kill me." Brendon didn't add that it was also possible he'd be killing someone's beloved pet by that time, if he wasn't safely locked up in his cage. That was the problem with cats—they were so cute and cuddly until he changed, and then all of a sudden he was six inches away from fresh, purring dinner. Brendon really didn't need to repeat that particular childhood screw-up.

"For real?" Brent said, breaking out into a smile. "Awesome, man. I totally appreciate it."

"Oh," Brendon said awkwardly. That had been pretty much the last thing he'd expected Brent to say. "Uh. You're welcome?"

"Word, my man," Brent said, turning back to his Geometry proof. "Word."

-

Brendon changed into sneakers and shorts after school in the gym, stuffing his books into his locker so his backpack wouldn't overbalance. It was a long run back to his house, but Brendon was pretty sure he might actually snap at someone if he had to take the bus. He knew he looked completely lame running home with his backpack, but it wasn't like he had any social standing to lose.

After the first mile his muscles loosened up, and he began to breathe easier. He stuck to smaller roads, cutting through cul-de-sacs and neighborhoods all across Summerlin. He stopped for a bottle of water halfway through and carried it the rest of the way, switching hands every so often to work out his upper arms. It wasn't like his efforts had ever really paid off—he was still small and slim, and would probably be so for the rest of his life, strange genetics or no—but he figured it was the least he could do. Maybe someday it would help him get laid.

His mom was in the kitchen when he got home, peering distractedly into the refrigerator. "Hi," Brendon mumbled, through panting breaths. He wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand.

"Hi honey," Mrs. Urie said. "I need to run, I still have another appointment this afternoon at the office." She was still wearing her work clothes, and scribbling on a piece of paper as she evaluated the contents of their fridge. "Dinner requests? I was thinking steak."

"Vegetarian, mom," Brendon said, tossing the empty water bottle in the trash on his way to the kitchen sink. He stuck his head under the faucet, and sighed in relief when the cool water hit the back of his head. "Still vegetarian. No steak."

"Brendon—" his mom started, and then cut herself off with a frustrated noise. "It's three days before—well, you know. You're going to make yourself sick—"

"Hasn't happened yet," Brendon mumbled, turning his head to lap at the base of the faucet. He knew it was kind of gross, but it was faster than getting a glass from the cupboard.

"It doesn't mean you don't need _protein_ ," his mom groaned. "Fine. We're having steak, and I'll pick you up some tofu. But you need to get over this—this teenage rebellion thing."

"I'm not rebelling," Brendon said, wiping off his face. "I just think it's wrong, that's all."

"Honey, you don't have a _choice_ ," his mom said irritably.

"Yes, I do," Brendon said, and went upstairs.

He stripped off his sweaty clothes, dropping them on the bathroom floor as he stepped into the shower. He rolled his shoulders under the spray, and tipped his head back, resisting the urge to shake off. The fight between him and his parents about his eating habits felt stale and tired, and Brendon wondered when they'd just give it up and let him do what he wanted. His mother maintained that he needed to eat meat to fuel his unusual metabolism; his father was convinced Brendon would make himself sick if his body wasn't used to it. Brendon didn't have the heart to point out that he was a completely different entity as a wolf, and that there really wasn't much of a connection between the two. He'd tried explaining it, once, but his parents had just given him that sad look that Brendon knew so well, and he'd snapped his mouth shut.

Brendon waited until after dinner to bring up Thursday, already anticipating a fight. He practiced piano until his parents and siblings arrived home, trickling through the door in twos and threes. After his brothers complained that they couldn't hear the TV over the sounds of Chopin, Brendon rolled his eyes and switched to playing guitar in his room.

They ate dinner on the back patio, enjoying the spring sunshine. Brendon waited until Mark (?) reminded his dad about his Little League game on Thursday, and then took advantage of the opening.

"I'm going to be out on Thursday, too," Brendon said, picking at his tofu. It tasted weird with steak sauce, but it was better than the alternative. "Can you guys pick me up after?"

"No," his mom said immediately, and then relented when Brendon's dad gave her a long-suffering look. "What's on Thursday?" Brendon's dad asked. His tone of voice wasn't approving, but he didn't sound like he was completely opposed to the idea.

"You guys can pick me up right after the game," Brendon said quickly. "I'll be home by nightfall. I just—some guys, at school. They want me to come jam with them."

"That's—not a good night," his mom said tightly. Brendon hated how she would never say it outright, despite the fact that everyone in his family _knew._ It wasn't like most kids had to watch their brother get locked up in a cage once a month. "What if something happens? Do you know these boys? What if—?"

"Nancy(?)," his father said softly, and gave her the look that meant, _we'll talk about this later_ , _not in front of the kids._ "We'll pick you up," Brendon's dad said, after a moment of silence all around. "But absolutely no later than six, okay? This is a trial run."

"Totally," Brendon said, nodding a little too eagerly. "Absolutely. 6pm. Got it." His mom pursed her lips, but all she did was raise an eyebrow at the remains of the tofu on Brendon's plate. "Now eat all of that," she said, reaching over to serve herself more salad. "You need the strength. Good food makes for a healthy body."

"Yeah, a _weirdo_ body," Mark muttered. Brendon reached over and flicked him on the nose.

-

Thursday morning dawned bright and aching. Brendon sucked down two cups of coffee before breakfast. His body was awake, tense and raring to go, but his brain felt like a thick fog had settled somewhere in his frontal lobe. He'd managed maybe an hour of sleep, and even that had been sort of a joke.

"Six pm," his dad said, giving Brendon a considering look over his cereal. "At the address you gave me. Okay?"

"Yes," Brendon said, forcibly restraining his leg from jittering. His skin felt itchy. "Absolutely. I promise."

"I know," his dad said, looking slightly sad. "I wish—well. I'll see you then."

"If he's not a _werewolf_ ," Mark said, and Brendon rolled his eyes.

"I think I'm going to eat you first," Brendon told him, tapping his spoon against the side of his empty cereal bowl. "Tonight. It's all over for you, my friend. You'll be delicious."

"Shut up, idiot," Mark said. "You don't eat people. I know you don't. You're too lame."

"First time for everything," Brendon said.

-

Brent's car was a tiny blueish-green hatchback, with slightly chipped paint and a jammed front window. It was still way cooler than Brendon's car, mostly because he didn't actually own one.

"Just don't—uh, let me open it from the inside," Brent said, when Brendon reached out for the handle. "That door's kind of. It has issues."

"Sure," Brendon said. His hands were shaking, just a little, and he clenched his right hand into a fist so Brent wouldn't see. "So we're going to this Spencer kid's house, right? Because that's where I need to get picked up."

"Totally," Brent said. "His kit's there, so that's where we practice. And I'm sorry I can't give you a ride, dude. It sucks that you live so far away."

"Yeah," Brendon said, raising an eyebrow. Brent was being really nice. Brendon felt faintly suspicious.

Spencer's house looked like pretty much every other house in Summerlin. It was a variation on the two-story ranch, with a large attached garage and lavender hellebore blooming in carefully cultivated patches around the front door. Brent parked in the driveway, and then popped his trunk open to grab his bass. "Ryan said he'd bring over his acoustic," Brent said, as he hefted the case with one hand. "And he keeps his electric here, so I think you'll be good."

"Yeah," Brendon said, shifting back and forth. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and tried to will his body into behaving. "That sounds good. I mean, whatever you guys want, really. I can do acoustic, but it doesn't sound like that's what you're looking for."

"Yeah," Brent agreed. He paused for a moment, opening and then closing his mouth decisively. "Our sound, it's—well, you'll see," Brent said, after a pause. "You'll meet Ryan."

"Um," Brendon said. "Okay?"

"He's kind of hard to explain," Brent said, shrugging. Brendon trailed behind him, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. Brent headed around to the side of the house, knocking briefly on the door leading into the garage, and then pushing it open.

Brendon paused at the entrance to the garage. He felt strange, all of a sudden, lightheaded and slightly nauseous. He shook it off, pushing his shoulders back and stepping through the door into the garage. It had been half-heartedly converted to a furnished room; there was a stained rug on the floor, and two threadbare couches arranged around a pile of portable amps, guitar pedals, and cables. A drum kit sat in the center. It had a thin layer of dust covering it, and a tall guy was wiping it down with a stained rag.

Brendon blinked. The lightheadedness was coming back with a vengeance.

"Spence," Brent said, crossing the room to perform one of those dude-slap handshakes with the tall guy. "This is Brendon. Wait until you hear him play, man."

"Cool," Spencer said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He grinned at Brendon and held a hand out. "Brendon what?"

"Urie," Brendon said, a little weakly. He felt an overwhelming compulsion to shake Spencer's hand, and at the same time he wanted to bolt from the room. It wasn't just that Spencer was good-looking, either, although Brendon privately thought you'd have to be blind not to notice how hot Spencer was. But this felt like something deeper, with that faint tinge of ash in his mouth that Brendon knew was the tell-tale sign of weird magical shit about to go down.

Brendon took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders again. "Urie," he said, and reached out his hand to meet Spencer's. Spencer's hand was warm and a little sweaty, and the minute their fingers touched Brendon felt a jolt, like an electric shock, and then a familiar, quiet pulsing. _Spencer's heartbeat,_ Brendon realized, with a start. He could feel Spencer's heart beating through the palm of his hand, and hey, wow, that wasn't normal.

"Huh," Spencer said quietly. Brendon blinked again, realized they were still holding hands, and quickly drew his away.

"Did you feel—" Spencer started, still frowning a little, and Brendon immediately changed the subject. "So, hey, thanks for letting me listen to you guys," Brendon said nervously. "I, uh, couldn't get my guitar here on such short notice, but Brent said I could maybe borrow Ryan's? Or—yeah, the other guy, his name is Ryan, right?" Brendon could hear himself rambling, but it was preferable to concentrating on the aftereffect of that strange tingling sensation.

"Yes," a quiet voice said from behind Brendon. Brendon turned to see a thin, pale guy making his way down the stairs into the garage, clutching a glass of water in one hand. He had longish brown bangs, and gauged holes in both ears. Brendon was seriously jealous of his jeans. And, okay, also of Ryan's _hips_ in those jeans.

Ryan walked over to him, sizing him up with a long look. Brendon bit his lip, and tried to smile. Ryan's expression was inscrutable, but Brendon had apparently passed some sort of test, because Ryan eventually held out his hand.

"Uh," Brendon said, wiping his palm off on his jeans. It was still weirdly tingly from when Spencer had held it. "Yeah, hi, nice to meet you."

"Sure," Ryan said, not unkindly. Brendon was starting to get the impression that Ryan didn't talk all that much. Ryan's fingers, if possible, were even longer than Spencer's. Brendon sucked in a breath when that strange jolt repeated itself, zinging from Ryan's fingers all the way up through Brendon's arm. Then a quick, thumping sensation started up. Ryan was definitely nervous, Brendon realized. His heart was beating much faster than Spencer's. Brendon looked up, and Ryan's eyes were wide and shocked. He quickly tugged his hand away from Brendon's, and stepped back slightly.

"So," Brent said, clearing his throat and giving them all a weird look. "Are we done with the hand-shaking?"

"Yeah," Brendon said quickly. "Yeah, totally, just, you know—being polite, and all—"

"You can borrow my guitar," Ryan cut in, stepping to the side and tugging a case out from underneath the stairs. "I heard you saying you didn't bring yours."

"Okay, yeah, great," Brendon rambled. His face felt hot, with embarrassment and something else he couldn't quite name. Of course he had to go and develop some weirdo fucking werewolf power on today, of all days. "Awesome. Totally."


End file.
